A Scheming Spectre
by Thorn17
Summary: Set after The Reichenbach Fall. As far as the world is concerned, Sherlock - the worlds' only consulting detective - is gone. How can he continue living his life if he wants to convince everybody that he is dead? Enter Mycroft, who provides his younger brother with insight into the life he can no longer have, until he succeeds in destroying Moriarty's network.


To observe that it was child's play to break into The Diogenes Club was an understatement. It had taken me less than two minutes to enter and make myself comfortable, seated in the dark, waiting for Mycroft. It was time that my brother and I had a little chat. What better time to do it than when everybody else had gone home? There would be no witnesses, no possible sightings. I was, after all, supposed to be dead. The whole world believed this to be true, even John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. As this had been my intention, as I had done it for _them_, this should not have concerned me. But it did. My superior brain could do little else but focus on this trivia, this chemical defect of mine. _Sentiment_. I had stood in the shadows of the cemetery, hidden away from sight amongst the trees, allowing me to witness first-hand how distressed John had become at my graveside, hearing his words carried on the wind as he spoke what he believed to be his final farewell to me. It broke my heart. Moriarty had succeeded.

"_Please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be dead. Just stop it. Stop __**this**__."_

_ One __**more**__ miracle. _These three words had convinced my brain that I had made the right decision. Unfortunately, my heart would take a little more convincing; there was no avoiding my inherited genetic predisposition to experiencing _feelings_. Johns' words, particularly the reference to one 'more' miracle, had served to confirm what I had already suspected; that John did not believe me to be the fake I had professed to being. 'More' indicated that in his eyes, I had performed miracles in the past; my deductions. Being a fake _was_ a lie, and we both knew it. It was the only lie that I had ever told John, rendering his statement 'nobody will ever convince me that you told me a lie' void, but I had understood his true meaning. He would survive this pain, these emotional scars. There was no possibility that he would have survived an assassins' bullet. There was no doubt in my mind that Moriarty would have given the order had I refused to jump. Either way, Moriarty truly _had_ burned the heart out of me, just as he had promised to. My life for Johns'. There had never been a choice, not really. John had saved my life in so many ways. It had been my chance to return the favour. It was reassuring to understand that Johns' current suffering truly _was _the lesser of two evils, but frustrating to know that I was the only living soul who could know and comprehend this information at present.

_"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is __**not**__ an advantage, Sherlock."_

This was proving to be an applicable observation. Although it was regrettable that it had been made by my brother, they were the truest words ever spoken by him. Despite his obvious flaws and our difficult relationship, Mycroft had always known how to keep me divorced from my feelings, allowing my brain to function at its full potential with regards to analysis, observation and logic. This, in part, was one of the reasons for my visit here tonight. Sentiment was such a restricting notion.

_"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the __**losing**__ side."_

Another profound observation. These were _my_ words, and my own previous experiences had ascertained that this comment had a sound basis in fact. The only other purpose that had been served was to illustrate that I _was _on the losing side at present. My mind palace was functioning perfectly, recalling all the relevant information regarding my current dilemma. A problem with this was that it threatened to trigger a lapse of control, causing my _feelings _to break through.

_"Interesting, yes, __**feelings**__. The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."_

_ This_ observation was applicable, but ineffective at concealing my feelings. The probability that my body would soon betray me for the fourth time in eighteen months increased rapidly. How disappointing. The tears that I had shed upon Barts' rooftop_ had_ been genuine. The pain that I had felt when lying to John, saying that I was a fake and consequently 'confessing' that Sergeant Donovan and Anderson - Anderson, of all people! - had been right all along, was nothing compared to the excruciating pain that saying goodbye to him had caused. My dearest brother had quite a few grievances to answer for, when he discovered my presence, I thought bitterly. It would not be long now. He was inside the building, and his attempt at a silent approach was shabby; his failing diet caused noisy footsteps, to say nothing of the absent-minded tapping of his umbrella against the floor. It was a habit of his when he was lost in thought, or anticipation. I had left the door connecting this room to the hallway open on purpose, something which Mycroft never did. He observed this minor change instantly, and deduced that it was I who was present.

"Sherlock?"

I did not turn around. The chair in which I sat had been positioned facing away from the entrance. It seemed that Mycroft did not like to be disturbed unless he had specifically requested company, thus aligning this chair in the perfect position. Noticing that his breathing pattern had changed from one that oozed normality to one that indicated annoyance, I realised that I was sat in his _personal _armchair, much like my own in 221B Baker Street. I did not move. "Mycroft. What kept you?"

"I had a few loose ends to tie up."

"Funnily enough, so do I."

Mycroft sighed wearily. He switched on the lights and made his way to the armchair opposite the one I occupied, the one he usually saved for visitors. Occupying his chair was only a minor irritant for him. If he could swallow his pride and request that I move, then I would have obliged. _My_ problem did not have such an easy remedy.

"Would you care to explain to me why the world believes you to be dead?" He raised his hand before I could correct him. "My apologies, that was a poor question. I shall rephrase. Why does the world believe you to be a fake, a fake genius who was so riddled with guilt that he committed suicide by jumping from a hospital roof?" He sounded incredulous.

I began my attempt to justify my actions, for the first time but definitely not the last. "It is an erroneous belief..."

"Clearly." Mycroft interrupted me. I ignored him. I had come here for a reason; I would not be sidetracked.

"It is an erroneous belief, but a necessary one."

"Necessary?"

"Yes." I paused and met Mycrofts' eyes. "John would never have revealed any information about my private life to Moriarty, whether it be accidentally or purposefully. Therefore, the only possible conclusion is that it was you. You were the tabloids' secret source." I raised my hand to stop Mycrofts' excuses from pouring out. He was already poised to defend himself, but I was not interested in excuses. Nothing could be done about it now, and even if it could, I understood Mycrofts' reasons for doing what he did even if I did not necessarily agree with them. Mycrofts' feelings for his country were similar to those that I had for John. Neither of us could allow something bad to happen to the things we cared about. Mycroft _did_ care about me, otherwise he would not feel in any way obliged to defend his actions to me. He wanted my approval, my acceptance of his unspoken apology. He just cared about his country_ more_. "This is not the reason that I am here. Putting all of that aside, Mycroft, for once in my life _Moriarty_ had the upper hand." I paused, remembering the events of that day upon the hospital rooftop. When I continued speaking, I realised that I sounded quiet. Scared. A child again."Your comment that caring is not an advantage did not prove to be a lie."

"Is that why you have come here tonight, Sherlock? To ask your big brother for guidance? For an explanation of what happened to the pair of you on the rooftop?" Mycrofts' face changed from a small sneer to displaying a pitying expression.

I did not give him a reply. He knew perfectly well that this was what I wanted. He would not get me to say it again. Mycroft abandoned these questions, obviously deeming them to be unfair. He tried again.

"Are you trying to say that I was _right_?"

I would never concede to saying that, but it _was_ the veiled meaning behind my words. "_I_ may be a high-functioning sociopath, but Moriarty truly was a _psychopath_. He was incapable of feeling _anything_, or caring for anyone."

"You and I are not blessed with this ability." Mycroft sounded disappointed, something which I could relate to at present.

"No, we are not." I admittedly begrudgingly. "We feel things, Mycroft, whether we want to or not. To reassert that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side seems rather apt. One way or another, sentiment has caused us both to lose something recently."

"I am aware of what I have lost." Mycroft admitted quietly. "What is it that _you_ have lost?"

"My friend."

"Your _friend?_" Social norms might have indicated that it was appropriate for Mycroft to sound incredulous here, but I didn't think that it was necessary for him to sound as incredulous as he just had.

"John." I explained. "Amongst other things, not to mention my reputation. But predominantly John."

"I see."

"No, you don't." Try as I might, I could not suppress a tiny smirk as I remembered a similar conversation that I had shared with John in Dartmoor, as Henry Knights' case came to its conclusion. _John_.

Mycroft frowned. "Sentiment?"

"Yes." I took a deep breath and began to explain myself to my brother, something I thought had ceased when I made the transition from childhood into adulthood. Apparently not. "When I confronted Moriarty on the roof of Bart's hospital, I was mistaken in the belief that those lines of computer code existed. They do not; information which I am sure pleases you immensely."

"Sherlock," Mycroft began, but I would not let him interrupt me again. What I had to say was too important, and there was very little time left.

"Moriarty informed me that if his people, his _assassins_, did not see me jump from the hospital rooftop, inevitably leading to my death, then they would kill John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. One bullet for each victim.'

"He threatened _them_? How did he..." Mycroft realised the answer to his question before he completed it. "Of _course_, he could see that they were your weakness, your Achilles' heel."

"Yes, and we both know yours, don't we?" I snarled, fearing that Mycroft was enjoying this a little too much. There was too much history between us for it to be any other way. "Anyway, that's not important." I paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "I couldn't let them die because of me, Mycroft."

"I'm not quite sure I follow. You are not dead, and given Moriartys' ultimatum, this would suggest that your friend and companions are dead. But they are not."

"No, they are not. Moriarty was mistaken in believing that I classed all three as my friends, but..."

"John is your only friend."

"Yes, naturally, but I could not allow _any_ of them to be harmed. As you have already _cleverly_ observed, Moriarty is the only person who has died." I was letting my emotions rule me again; specifically resentment. I took a deep breath and told myself that our unresolved childhood issues would have to be dealt with at a later date. There was too much at stake here for something to go wrong. "I jumped so that they could live. In this respect, my plan has been successful."

"Plan?"

"Yes. They believe me to be dead, and there is nothing I can or will do about this at present. When I choose to reveal my survival, which rest assured I will be doing, then it will be when I have fulfilled my main outstanding task; destroying Moriartys' organisation. I am sure that Moriarty was not truly alone as we stood on the hospital rooftop. Even when I confronted him at the swimming pool, the pool where Carl Powers had died and John was being held hostage, he had somebody else there with him to 'hold the rifle'."

"You're going to bring down the whole network?"

"With your help, yes." I had no qualms with asking Mycroft for help when there were more important matters at stake than our 'sibling rivalry', as John had put it.

"What do you want from me?"

"I have nowhere to go, Mycroft."

"Very well, I shall provide you with money and accommodation, but that it not what you 'want'. It is what you 'need'. What do you _want, _Sherlock?"

"Take care of John for me."

"John?"

"Yes, John. And Mrs Hudson. And Lestrade. And Molly."

"Naturally. It is the least I owe you, I suppose, under the circumstances. Anything else, besides babysitting your friends? Apologies; your friend and your companions." After amending his comment, my brother sighed. "I _told_ you that people would get hurt in this childish feud of ours. You have proved that to be true now, with John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly, alongside you and I. Nobody has escaped unharmed from this ordeal, physically or emotionally. Haven't you realised yet that we truly _are _on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, _no_." I seemed to spend most of my life telling Mycroft this. One day he might actually believe me. I didn't class telling my arch-enemy private information about my life as a gesture that two people on the same side would agree with. I rose from my chair, turning my coat collar up in preparation for the cold night air. "Goodbye Mycroft."

Mycroft stood too, leaning against his umbrella. He offered me his hand to shake. "Goodbye Sherlock. A most impressive stunt regarding the hospital roof incident, by the way. Be careful, and good luck."

I was mildly shocked by such an emotional outburst from my brother. "You understand how I did it, but do you understand _why_?"

"Of course."

He was lying. I knew he was - sentiment was seemingly below Mycroft - but it was the reasoning behind his decision to lie that convinced me. With this acknowledgement, I accepted the gesture and shook his hand briefly. "Thank you." And then I left.


End file.
